Darksides and Silverlinings
by Anya2
Summary: Sequel to Burton's wonderful 'Sleepy Hollow'...When Katrina left Sleepy Hollow, she didn't leave behind the responsibilities left to her by her father. As tragedy strikes once more she, Ichabod and Masbath return to try and solve a new bizzare mystery...
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story takes place one year after the film. Hope you enjoy it. And please review it if you do!

Disclaimer: The characters from the movie/book obviously do not belong to me. In fact, I don't know who they belong to, but it's definitely not me (if I owned Johnny Depp I would most certainly remember the fact) and I don't make any profit from playing with them a little...

CHAPTER 1

The thick, bulbous snow clouds which had obscured the New York sky for weeks, frequently unburdening themselves of their load, finally parted allowing the stark white moon to shed it's eerie light upon the city. A closer inspection revealed that the sky itself was not the traditionally considered black, but actually the deepest midnight blue. The clouds that drifted lazily around the moon seemed suddenly unwilling to pass over it, instead skirting around its circumference as if fearful of its incandescent beams. In fact, so bright was the full moon that clouds could be observed all over the night sky, illuminated in grey highlights. The snow, lying two inches thick on the cobbled streets glistened too, appearing almost more ice blue than pure white. The overall affect was the a scene from the most common of fairytales or ghost stories. And yet it was all real. 

The pounding of racing feet, loud even in the soft muffling snow, disturbed this holy sense of peace. Robert stopped for a short moment, a little enchanted by the atmosphere. Christmas was almost upon them and it was if nature itself knew. As if it was celebrating along with them by creating the ambiance the season deserved. It was the sort of place that should be strolled through lightly, absorbing its aura without desecrating it. Its beauty was simply ethereal. Otherworldly.

But the sound of his pursuers managed to knock him roughly out of his reverie.

Instinct made him run as fast as he could. In the soft snow it was difficult to get any purchase and that made the chase all the more tiring. But if they caught him, it would be his end. And he refused to meet his end as a consequence of such a noble deed. Surely that simply couldn't be just. In the name of the good Lord, it was unthinkable.

Willing his aching legs to continue was hard, but a rush of determination was great assistance. Somehow he seemed to move beyond pain and exhaustion. To pass the barrier and get to a point where it felt as if he could simply run forever. Indeed, he might just need to. His main protagonist was certainly a determined man.

He continued to run, feeling surprisingly light and free. Even clambering up the incline of the footbridge that passed over the Hudson was seemingly easy. Perhaps it was the realisation that safety was visibly in his sight. The district lit up in the near distance was his own. The people there would be his saviour.

As he reached the peak of the rise he stumbled slightly, his foot losing its tenuous grip. Falling to hands and knees, the breath he had been subconsciously holding was knocked out of him. His hands stung viciously through a combination of the force of blow and the cold. For just a moment he allowed himself to rest before a cry was heard from behind.

"Stop!"

That jolted Robert back into action and he forcefully pushed himself straight into a run.

"Stop right there!" the voice cried again, closer this time.

While the shout was obviously intended as a command, the tone betrayed the speaker slightly. He was asking Robert to stop, not telling him. And since that meant Robert had a choice, he felt free to ignore it.

Running over the incline, he took the first opportunity to glance back over his shoulder. His pursuer had just put foot on the bridge. If Robert really put in one last effort he could be lost within the myriad of streets below before the other man had him in his sights.

Perhaps it was the illusion of victory that made him forgetful, or perhaps it was exhaustion. Only when he was turning back in the right direction however did he realise that he had but seen a 'pursuer', not 'pursuers'. Sure enough he found himself facing right into the barrel of a pistol.

The boy couldn't have been more than twelve years old, seemingly easy to dispatch with, but Robert wasn't entirely sure how to handle him. He had seen the young man to be a brave sort who served his master with an almost godly devotion. He would certainly have no second thoughts over whether or not to put a bullet in Robert, should the man try to run past him.

But was that a chance Robert was just going to have to take?

The moment of indecision cost him dearly for it allowed the other man to catch up. It seemed he had underestimated him. Such a slight fellow. Who would have known he'd had he stamina for such a chase?

Robert knew his options were limited. The only way off the bridge and to safety was past the boy, and if he took that then certainly he would end up with a bullet in his back. Not really a fitting hero's end.

Turning wildly back to face the other man, a smile found its way onto his face and he laughed slightly manically.

"Mr Crane!" he said brightly, as if they were old friends, "A strange place to be meeting you. Surely a pleasant coincidence."

Ichabod found himself a little discomforted by the man's amiable manner. His authority and sense of control abandoned him momentarily, and the words would just not come. Winslow's reaction was a strange one. It spoke of a confidence that he would be able to escape from this situation - or a certainty that he if was to leave this mortal coil, he would take the former constable with him. A reason to be nervous if ever Ichabod had known one. And he had known many.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he resolved to be strong.

"Give yourself up, Mr Winslow," he advised, firmly, "There is nowhere to run. I have had Mrs Munroe inform the police of your actions and even now half the New York constabulary is hunting for you."

Even as he said the words however, he doubted them. The police were most likely to have scoffed heartily at the mention of his name. Their contempt for him seemed to have only escalated following his resignation. It was unlikely he would receive any help from them. But Robert Winslow didn't know that.

Robert snorted a laugh, as if sensing Ichabod's lack of confidence, "Hardly a terrifying prospect, Mr Crane. They investigated this murder before. Got the wrong man as I seem to recall."

Ichabod's face flickered with emotion. Yes, he did remembered. The murder of Mr Dalton Munroe had been quite a shock to the quiet community in which the businessman had resided. Even more horrifying was the conclusion that since no sign of forced entry could be found, the murderer must have been one of Munroe's own family.

His youngest son was a bad sort. Up to his neck in gambling debts and without a penny to his name. His father had refused to help him any further and they had argued on the matter. Just hours later, Munroe was found dead. Suspicion immediately fell upon the young man and within the week, Julian Munroe had been tried and executed on the charge of murdering his father. Say what you will about the constabulary, but they always proved themselves highly efficient in dealing out swift punishments.

Ichabod had followed the progress of the case in the paper, but since his departure from the New York Constabulary, he was no longer directly involved in such matters. Frustrated with his colleagues' and superiors' constant disregard for him and his methods, he had reinvented himself as a private investigator. The insecurity of the job had concerned him, but Katrina's own fortune allowed them to live more than comfortably without having to worry themselves about his income. He hadn't felt quite right - as if he was being a burden to her - but she had stated quite firmly that she would rather have to spend a few more of her own pennies than continue to see him unhappy, and, as always, he had been unable to refuse her wish. The job also allowed him to become a true mentor to Young Masbath - a task he enjoyed far more than he ever actually let on. The boy's willingness to learn was something he had rarely encountered, and the chance to shape a young mind was most welcome. If Ichabod left one epitaph behind in this world he would be proud for it to be the fine, intelligent man the boy would one day become.

Despite his initial fears, Ichabod had rarely found himself without work. The constabulary's ineptitude saw to that. This case was a prime example of such. Mrs Munroe had contacted him just days after Julian's execution. The boy was not her own son - his mother had died, and she had replaced her five years later - but still she felt as if a great injustice had been done. She had said that she didn't think him capable of murder, but the police had not listened. As far as they were concerned, they had caught their man. Ichabod had been suggested to her by a friend who had hired him when some of the lady's most precious jewellery had been stolen. The thief had been apprehended, but the goods had remained at large. Ichabod had eventually deduced that the thief simply couldn't have left the premises with the stolen property. He was proven right when he and Masbath had fished them out of the garden's ornamental pond. Full of praise for Crane and his work, the lady had recommended him to Mrs Munroe who wanted not only a final justice for her husband, but a absolution for her step son.

To Ichabod's surprise and dismay, the main piece of 'evidence' the police had used to convict the unfortunate younger Munroe, was easily proved to be a fallacy. While there was indeed no sign of a forced entry, a simple investigation of the surroundings discovered a clue which had been overlooked. So sure were the police that the murder had been committed by someone inside that they had neglected to check the exterior. Which is where Ichabod had discovered a small smear of blood on the windowsill. Further investigation with his powders and chemicals had shown there to have also been a considerable amount of blood on the ground nearby. Again, the police had seemed to overlook the fact that such a vicious head wound would have bled profusely, and yet the bloodstain on the carpet was small. Clearly the murder had been committed outside, after which the body was dragged indoors via the window. The attacker had used Munroe's own keys to open it and secured it again following his exit, making it appear impossible for an outside party to have been involved and thus covering his tracks.

Once it had been established that Julian Munroe in all likelihood had been an innocent party, a stroke of good fortune had delivered the true culprit to them. Katrina had been teaching Masbath to read and had sent him to the public library to find some storybooks. All Ichabod owned were scientific texts and her own tales of romance weren't really of interest a young boy. Over the weeks, Masbath had developed somewhat of a friendship with the kind old librarian, Mr Charles. He took an eager interest in the boy's work with Ichabod, often asking him what they were currently investigating. When Masbath had mentioned the Munroe case, Charles had shook his head saying how perhaps it was some kind of divine justice the man had met such an end after the conduct of his youth had caused such tragedy. Intrigued, Masbath had asked the man to elaborate. As it turned out, Dalton Munroe had once been subject of quite a scandal. Engaged to be married, he had began flirtations with a young widow. This apparently continued in secret right up until his marriage at which point he broke the affair off, saying he would not be an adulterer. The poor widow however had fallen madly in love with him. For a time she took to following him around, spying on him, trying to win herself back into his favour. When he had confronted her however, telling her he did not love her and would have her committed to an asylum if she continued to harass him, she seemingly lost her mind. She had walked straight to the Hudson and drowned herself.

Masbath had run straight to Ichabod and told him what he had learnt. Surprised and pleased by his young assistant's work, Ichabod had at once set about investigating the one black mark in Munroe's otherwise well conducted affairs. He soon discovered that the widow had had a son. A boy who had been eight at the time of her death and had since gone on to live with his uncle who was by all accounts a terrible, violent man. Loss of the mother leading to a disturbing childhood? Certainly a motive for murder.

Nervously, Ichabod and Masbath had broken into Robert Winslow's rooms to look for clues, and without much difficulty had discovered the murder weapon - a club covered in blood, displayed like some sort of trophy. The man himself though was a little harder to find. Only this very night had the pair of them finally tracked Winslow to a tavern where Ichabod had meant to confront him with the accusations. It seemed however that the suspect was aware of their investigations, because the moment he had seen them he had bolted and the chase had begun.

Staring down the murderer now, Young Masbath's swift feet having allowed the boy to get into a position whereby he could back him up, Ichabod felt a shiver of cold. Even so he was determined to be in control. He held the cards. He was in the right. Winslow was at his mercy.

"I have considerable evidence that you are guilty of murder, Mr Winslow," he said crisply, "You cannot expect to get away with it. In this life or the next."

"And what of Munroe?" Robert spat viciously, "Wasn't it fair that he was punished for the murder of my mother?"

Ichabod shook his head, surprisingly calm, "Mr Munroe did not kill your mother, sir. It was a suicide."

"He drove her to her grave!" Robert shouted fiercely, a nerve clearly struck. Without hesitation he began advancing on Ichabod in a threatening manner.

Before the former constable had a chance to defend himself a shot rang out landing in the snow between himself and the advancing man. Both of them turned to see Young Masbath having discarded one pistol and now holding a second. He simply nodded in acknowledgment at Ichabod's silent thanks.

Ichabod swallowed the lump in his throat his voice cracking just slightly as he spoke again, "I do believe you should accompany myself and Young Mr Masbath here to the police station. You have nowhere else to run."

Robert stared him up and down almost disdainfully. As if he couldn't believe that this slip of a man standing before him had managed to do what New York's finest hadn't. He shook his head slowly in disbelief. Then he shrugged.

"It seems you've undone me, Mr Crane," he admitted, quietly. Then his face turned to an intrigued frown, "How in heaven's name did you come to discover the younger Mr Munroe was innocent?"

Ichabod preened just slightly at a small chance to demonstrate his remarkable deductive skills, "The case against Julian Munroe entirely depended on the predicate that the murder was committed inside the house. I simply proved this to be a fallacy by discovering the chemical remnants of some blood in the gardens. Even in the present inclement weather the remains were detectable."

Robert nodded, impressed, "Congratulations, sir. Remarkable work. You might have done what the full force of the law couldn't."

"There's no 'might' about it," Ichabod said with a derisive huff, showing clearly what he thought about the constabulary's crime solving abilities.

"I suppose you must still defer to them on matters of punishment though," Robert stated, gazing at him levelly.

Ichabod and Masbath glanced at one another. It appeared as if the man's surrender was indeed imminent. Ichabod, for one, was mightily relieved. Robert Winslow was a large, stocky, well-built fellow. If it had come down to a physical contest Ichabod would have come off undoubtedly the worse. Brawls were not really his forte.

Slowly they herded the man in front of them, preparing for the long walk to the police station. Ichabod wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say when he got there. The High Constable wasn't really going to be willing to listen to a man he undoubtedly despised, telling him that they had executed an innocent gentleman. Ichabod just prayed that they would actually impound Winslow. What good would Ichabod be as a detective if the law was never on his side and hence his cases could never gain any satisfactory conclusion?

Winslow took just two paces however before his demeanour seemed to change. He stiffened as if something had suddenly struck him.

It was the realisation that if he gave in now it would be like admitting that he had been wrong. And that monster Munroe had been right in all he had done to his dear mother.

A righteous anger spread over him and a decision was made.

Roughly shoving the boy to the snow, he didn't hesitate in punching Ichabod across the nose before the man could pull his pistol, sending him sprawling onto his back.

Ichabod was on his feet again in moments, clutching at his already bleeding nose. He stumbled over to the wall but he was far too late. He was only in time to watch Robert Winslow bounce sickeningly off the side of the bridge as he struck it and fell dead into the river below.

Joining his mother in her own watery grave.


	2. Chapter 2

****

CHAPTER 2

Katrina's eyes fluttered open gently at the sound of the front door closing. The entrance had been soft - as if the person was trying their hardest not to wake her - but she had been awaiting their return for some while now and had subconsciously tuned herself in to the scrape of the key in the lock.

The clock on the mantle piece announced it was well past one in the morning. Last she remembered it had been just touching twelve and Ichabod and William had not yet returned home. Her husband had explained the situation and that they may be out until very late, but she had found herself unable and unwilling to retire to bed until she was sure they were safely under their roof once more. It had been the same way ever since he had started this new job and she had quickly gotten used to these long, drawn out vigils, wondering where he was and what he was doing. All these nights of waiting patiently up however seemed to be finally catching up with her, and she stifled an exhausted yawn as she reached down to pick up the book which had slipped out of her hands as she drifted off. Replacing the book on the shelf she turned to greet her returning heroes with a smile, only to gasp when she saw them.

An air of defeat accompanied the two into the room, the scene made all the worse by the sight of Ichabod pressing a bloodied handkerchief to his nose.

"Goodness," she exclaimed, going to immediately help her husband to a chair, "You look dreadful! What happened?"

"Our murderer decided to give himself his just deserts," Ichabod said with a sigh as Katrina fussed over him, trying to get a look at his nose. Once she was satisfied that the wound was only superficial and nothing was broken, she turned her attention to Masbath who was hovering nearby.

"And you, William?" she asked, kneeling in front of him to check the boy over, "Are you hurt?"

"No, Ma'am," he said softly, a mixture of sheer tiredness and disappointment.

Catching the boy's look, Ichabod patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. He knew that despite all the terrible things he had seen, Masbath still held a somewhat idealistic child's view of the world. He expected things to turn out well and when they didn't, it was almost as if it shook the very foundations of his beliefs. Ichabod remembered what it was to feel like that and knew that it couldn't last. Eventually a cynical realisation of life's true nature would assert itself and things would never be as clear cut as they once where. He only hoped Masbath could hold on to his slightly rose tinted view for as long as he could.

"Thank you as always for your invaluable assistance, Young Masbath," he said with a smile, "But I think now is time for you to get some rest."

The boy looked a little troubled, "Will you be all right, sir?"

"I think Katrina can manage enough fussing for the both of you," Ichabod replied, throwing her a dry look, "And besides, you are no good to me if you are falling asleep on the job."

Masbath brightened a little, nodding. Ichabod would be fine and tomorrow they could continue as always. Perhaps a new case could come in. A new chance to help someone and learn something interesting. His mother had always told him that things got here more quickly when you slept, and he wanted nothing more than for it to be tomorrow.

"Very well, sir," he said, with a look of assurance, "Goodnight. Goodnight, Katrina."

Katrina planted a kiss on his forehead as the boy passed, and he briefly consented to a fierce hug. When Masbath had first joined them things had been a little strange. He had been brought up to a life of servitude and felt the need to act appropriately for such a position. Ichabod and Katrina had managed to teach him otherwise though. Both of them had been left without true family and the more people they could cling to, the better. William Masbath had become their ward and pupil, as well as their friend and family. He idolised Ichabod and doted upon Katrina, soon losing any sense of inferiority he had felt. As Katrina said, he was both kinder and braver than both of them were - they were the inferior ones.

Breaking the embrace a little reluctantly, William gave them a warm, reassuring smile just before he left the room and slowly plodded up to bed.

Upon the sound of the closing bedroom door, Ichabod visibly sagged, feeling no need to keep up appearances anymore. He felt such a terrible sense of defeat. Indeed, the man had been doomed to die anyway, but what had happened wasn't justice in the strictest sense. It wasn't what Ichabod had strived to do, even if the end result was the same.

Katrina was pained to see him in such a state. One his most admirable qualities was his determination. Ichabod never gave up. Not when the other boys at his school had picked on him for being quiet and bookish. Not when he had left his father's home at a young age and had had to fend for himself. Not when his attempts at sense and reform were constantly disparaged by the constabulary. Not when he had come to Sleepy Hollow and been at worst despised and at best tolerated by the people he was trying to help. Not when the seemingly unstoppable horseman was pursuing them intent upon killing her.

Something awful must have happened this night to shake his confidence so. Or at least an accumulation of things. The straw which broke the donkey's back, so to speak.

"I think you'd be wise to heed your own advice," she said softly, stroking a gentle hand across his cheek knowing that, like William, rest and the dawn of a new day would do him the world of good, "Surely that great mind of yours cannot function without sleep."

He looked up at her, his dark eyes penetrating in their intensity. He seemed to know what was written in her soul. To read exactly the thoughts of her mind as if she were an open book. In a way that was always left her a little unseated, and yet she trusted him so deeply she was never afraid for him to see.

"You didn't even ask me what happened," he said, a little despairingly.

"I didn't think you'd wish to speak of it" she admitted, "Wouldn't it be better for you if you could come back here and leave that world behind you?"

Ichabod sighed deeply as he pulled her to his lap, feeling the compulsion to be close to one of the few things in his retched life that he could count as a success. How he had ever wooed this lovely young lady, he'd never know.

"Oh, Katrina," he whispered softly, his lips close to her ear, "I only wish I could. But these cases haunt my waking hours like my childhood haunts my dreams. And if I fail the hauntings only become worse."

"Fail?" she enquired, softly.

He quickly related the story of the night's events as she sat peacefully in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, listening to his every word without comment.

"In short," he concluded, "Three men have died in this fiasco. And at least one of those had no reason to."

"But," she reasoned, "You cannot blame yourself for the constabulary's failings."

"That is simply the problem, Katrina," he said with a deep, mournful sigh, "I must. I failed to enlighten them to more productive methods of crime solving. While the conclusion that Winslow was to blame for this was certainly a chance discovery, the realisation that Julian Munroe was innocent was an easy enough truth to find. Rarely have I had such a simple deduction. And yet the man was hung, when he should have been pitied and left to mourn his father. It is bad enough that a guilty man should escape punishment, but that it should be inflicted on an innocent one is simply unforgivable."

"Perhaps not entirely," Katrina said, suddenly a little introspective.

Ichabod's heart turned to lead as he saw the troubled expression in her peaceful eyes. Hadn't he himself been guilty of such a thing when he had accused her innocent father of murder before his own tragic death proved him wrong. And, thankfully unbeknownst to her, he had also incorrectly concluded that she had been the one in control of the horseman and hence the one who had murdered her own father? And even if the reference had passed her by and it was simply her soft heart touched by the plight of an innocent man, hadn't he silently promised himself that he would not sully the light and peace of her world with the darkness and despair he often found himself in?

"You're exhausted," she said softly, slipping from his lap, "Go to bed. I'll be there in a moment."

Too tired to argue with her, Ichabod found himself plodding up the stairs almost in a trance, dropping onto the bed and slowly changing into his pyjamas. Despite his tiredness however he refused to fall asleep until she joined him. He didn't feel secure without her. A crazy notion - he had survived alone before his trip to Sleepy Hollow had brought them together - but somehow he felt safer when she was around. Less emotionally vulnerable.

After what felt like too long, she entered the room with a candle in one hand and a bottle in the other.

"What is that?" he asked curiously, propping himself up on his elbow.

"Shh," she instructed, placing the candle to one side as she sat on the bed next to him. Her hands reached forward and pushed his nightshirt up his back. Ichabod looked at her a little startled, and she smiled, part sweet and part mischievous. "It's a soothing oil," she explained, "When applied to skin it helps to calm a person and relieve them of anxiety." A trace of humour found it's way into her eyes, "Sometimes I believe there has never been anyone more in need of it than you."

There was a dry scolding in his look, but he obeyed the instructions of her insistent hands and rolled onto his stomach.

He held his breath slightly as her fingers came in to contact with his back. Such an intimate touch set his emotions into turmoil. His heart began to thud noticeably and his skin flushed - so clear against his normal pale complexion. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Katrina's almost lascivious grin. Obviously she found his uneasy highly amusing.

"You must relax," she whispered, softly.

"That is not as easy as you would imagine," he said, his voice a little high strung.

It took him a little time but eventually he did managed to calm himself. When he did so, he realised that Katrina was right. The oil was soothing in both its application and scent. A pleasant heat was also generated, but whether this was the affect of the oil or the brush of her warm fingers against the flesh of his back, he wasn't sure.

He was teetering on the verge of sleep by the time she had finished. Changing swiftly and silently for bed, she slipped underneath the covers without disturbing him. Immediately two arms sneaked their familiar way around her waist and pulled her tight against her husband.

The lullaby of his heartbeat sent her to sleep shortly after he drifted off.


	3. Chapter 3

****

CHAPTER 3

Ichabod didn't know how she did it, but Katrina seemed to know exactly the right way to lift his spirits. Perhaps there was some witch in her after all because it worked like magic.

When she had suggested at breakfast that they take a walk together, he had originally dismissed the idea. A good investigator, he preached, left detailed notes on both his successes and failures for it was only by mistakes that he learnt. And he had much work to do in documenting the events of the previous night.

Besides, it was very cold outside and snowing more frequently by the hour. Whilst his laboratory was never warm, it was a tropical paradise in comparison.

Katrina had not pleaded with him nor tried to persuade him otherwise. He was a surprisingly stubborn man by nature and changing his mind required a slightly more subtle approach.

Just an hour later he had been disturbed in his meticulous note making by a soft knock on the door. Katrina had entered, dressed in attire suitable for the weather, gloves warming her delicate hands and her hair pinned in place in defence against an erratic wind.

She announced that she still felt in need of some fresh air and so she would accompany Masbath to the library. She wouldn't be long.

Ichabod had laughed slightly at that. He knew that once the boy had gotten to the library he would not be persuaded to depart for some time. She was in for a lengthy wait.

Oh no, she had informed him, she didn't intend to wait. Only to walk there and back again.

This had caught his attention and he had put his pen down to remind her this meant she would be walking back alone.

She had nonchalantly pushed the remark aside however and said she would see him later.

She had barely gotten her boots on though before he was trotting down the stairs, dressed in his long black overcoat. Katrina smiled secretly at Masbath and the boy had to hold his hand to his mouth to disguise a smile of his own.

She supposed it was a little cruel to use Ichabod's concern for her against him but, in the circumstances, justified. He sorely needed to get away from that case for a while. Needed to escape from his own mind and his own doubts.

The journey to the library passed quickly enough, with Masbath feeling it necessary to inform them of the every nuance of the book he had been reading. It had been a pirate adventure and clearly he had greatly enjoyed it.

Having deposited him safely there, with strict instructions to be back well in time for dinner, Ichabod and Katrina had set of for home again. This time however she insisted they take a slightly more scenic route through the park. It had already began to snow again and by the time they found themselves walking among the tree-lined paths, it was falling in a thick blanket.

Ichabod felt a little uncomfortable with how cold and wet he was beginning to get, but Katrina did not seem to mind at all.

"Winter's in Sleepy Hollow were never like this," she said, looking around her in awe as she clung more tightly to his arm, "They were dead and bleak. An ugly season. It hasn't snowed there since I was a little girl."

"Then Sleepy Hollow was blessed with something," Ichabod said dryly.

Katrina shook her head with a weary fondness, "I don't understand why you dislike it so. I think it's beautiful."

"And I think it's just cold."

She stopped in front of him and smiled playfully, "And I think that you are just afraid that I may pelt you with a snowball when your back is turned."

That made Ichabod attempt a smile - the first since he had arrived home in defeat the previous night - and Katrina warmed. Tragedy as a child held more than a little sway over his life as an adult. Even if he could never recall the exact details of all the events that had scarred him so, a remnant of a feeling suffocated him like a black mist. Whilst he was a wonderful, clever, caring and thoughtful man, he needed more laughter and more smiles. It was in times like these she got rare glimpses who he was behind the mask of nightmares and sorrow.

"No," he said in a slightly shy manner, as he often did in these more carefree moments, "I'm actually just rather more concerned for you. I was always quite a remarkable shot in my youth."

Katrina laughed, "That may be, Mr Crane, but you'd have to catch me first."

And with that she ran off towards the small wooded area. By the time Ichabod and recovered from surprise and given chase, she was nowhere in sight. He smiled - it seemed that the Pickety Witch intended to lead him a merry dance. Well, he would see about that...

Bending to the ground, his sharp eyes quickly found what he was looking for and he trotted quietly off.

Sure enough, his wide circle brought him right behind the tree which Katrina was using as a hiding place. She was peering cautiously around one side of it, a snowball held in her gloved hands.

Sneaking silently up to her, she had no idea of his whereabouts before he grabbed her around the waist and hastily disarmed her. She shrieked in surprise as he caught her.

"How did you do that?" she laughed, with a mildly petulant look.

"Quite simple," he explained with a little flair, "Overlying tracks showed me exactly where you had gone."

"Cheater," she accused.

"You only said I had to catch you," he justified, playing to her game, "You did not say how."

"But you said something about pelting me with snowballs," she quickly countered, "And I don't see any. A gentleman should be as good as his word."

"Ah, but surely since I caught you," he reasoned, holding her tighter, "The reward should me of my choosing."

Without warning he kissed her softly, and when he pulled away and looked it her dark eyes he saw such love that his heart leapt. For the thousandth time he wondered how he had gotten her. And for the thousandth time he thanked his lucky stars that he had.

---

Katrina craned her neck over her shoulder, allowing her to get a good look at the rear of her new dress reflected in the mirror. Satisfied, she twirled back the other way taking one last long appraisal. The deep green was a nicer colour than she first thought and the embroidery was simply exquisite. She didn't consider herself an extravagant spender, but she had been unable to resist a wander into the new dress shop which had opened nearby. She certainly was a slave to a pretty dress. She couldn't help it.

The ringing of the doorbell interrupted her admiration of her purchase. Trotting quickly down the stairs, she opened the front door to be greeted by a small boy.

"Letter for you, Miss," he said in an almost comically self-important manner.

She took the envelope that the boy thrust out at her, and dug quickly into her nearby purse, retrieving a few coins.

"Thank you, young man," she said, placing the money in his hands.

The boy grinned in delight and it warmed Katrina to see the skip in his step as he hurried off down the street, eager to find another errand.

Closing the door and heading back inside, she turned the letter over curiously in her hand. There were precious few people in this world who would be writing to her. Most of her dearest friends she had made here in New York. 

Her eyes immediately fixated on the return address and her breath caught.

Sleepy Hollow.

Moving to the lounge, she quickly ripped open the envelope and pulled out the neatly folded piece of paper. She recognised the handwriting as that of Mr James Jeffries. He was a respectable man in the small town - a carpenter married to a lovely young lady and father to a daughter who could not be more than a year old. She remembered him as such a kindly figure with the most pleasant smile. When she had been a young girl, on the behest of her father, he had made her the most beautiful rocking horse and dolls house. The special attention to detail he had given them only made her love the birthday presents more. As she had grown older, she had come to know Jeffries as an intelligent, amiable fellow who always had everyone else's best interests at heart. Which was why when she had left Sleepy Hollow, she had entrusted him with the task of watching over the village for her. By her father's will she was now Lady of Van Tassel. His property and tenants were hers and hence her responsibility. While she wanted nothing more than to leave for New York with Ichabod and Masbath, she knew she had to see to it that the people living on her land were well looked after. As such, she had asked Jeffries to keep a close watch for her and report anything amiss. He had written to her only two weeks ago to give a general report on affairs. Another update so soon could only mean bad news.

She found her fingers trembling slightly as she opened the letter. With good reason too. She knew just how bad things could become in such a cursed place.

Her eyes scanned the letter as quickly as possible:

__

My Dear Mrs Crane,

I trust this correspondence finds you as the last did and that things continue to go well. Both my wife and I would like to thank you for the kind words of your last letter and for the gifts you sent to our sweet Emily. She clings to that doll as if it is the most precious thing in her small world.

As I am sure you have gathered, another letter so soon can only mean things are amiss here. I am loathed to bring distress to your dear heart, but since you made me promise to keep you abreast of the goings on here I feel duty bound to inform you of something both odd and terrible.

Last week I was a little disturbed when Joseph Carrigan, one of your tenants in an outlying farm, failed to collect a new table he had asked me to make for him. He seemed so desperate for the piece when he ordered it that he paid me extra to get it finished more quickly. When he still hadn't come for it two days later, I resolved to take it to him myself, thinking that perhaps he was ill and unable to come. As I was leaving town I was met by Van Ripper. I told him what had happened and he said that Carrigan had also failed to collect some goods from him at an allotted time. Concerned, we headed out to his homestead.

What we found there has left me unable to sleep comfortably for days. Or, perhaps I should say what we didn't find there.

Carrigan and his family were gone. Vanished in the most bizarre way. A pot of potatoes had burnt itself dry over the still smouldering fire. Vegetables were part way through chopping. Toys had the appearance of still being played with. Outside, crops had begun to be planted and then simply left. It was as if some great hand had come down without warning and plucked the Carrigan family from where they stood.

Van Ripper and I searched the area diligently, but found no sign of them. No sign that they had been taken or attacked in anyway, or that they had for some reason fled. Deciding to ask their neighbours if they knew what had happened, we crossed quickly to the nearest farm and found a similar scene there. As if the house had been abandoned in an instant. The same was also found at the next farm.

Even now, days later, we have no clue as to what befell these missing families. Whisperings have started amongst the townsfolk and some are already talking of leaving. They believe the whole place is simply cursed with evil.

As for myself, I will stay and anxiously await your response. I only pray that I am still here to receive it and that another tragedy should not befall our poor town.

Yours faithfully,

James Jeffries

Katrina placed the letter carefully aside not entirely sure what she felt in response to it's contents. She had expected something such as news of a fire or terrible storm that had destroyed property. Awful but somewhat commonplace. But the occurrence of something so odd? She was entirely unprepared and as such didn't know how to react.

But, she told herself firmly, bizarre or not, people who she held some responsibility for had still gone missing. She had to take action.


	4. Chapter 4

****

CHAPTER 4

"And even his own son could not recognise him?" Masbath asked in amazement as he shifted the weight of the books he was holding.

"No," Ichabod replied, nimbly dodging the two small children who were running carelessly along the street, partaking in a snowball fight. The box in his hand contained a number of new chemicals and it would be a tragedy for them to be broken when he was so close to getting them safely home.

"So how did you identify him?" Masbath continued, frowning, not being able to think of an appropriate method amongst the catalogue of ones he had already studied under the former constable's tutelage.

"Stomach contents," Ichabod explained brightly, "An autopsy showed that the corpse in question had recently eaten pheasant. It was simple enough to discover where he had taken his last known meal and find out what he ordered." He looked ponderous a moment, and when he spoke again it was more to himself than Masbath, "Of course there was always the possibility that that was sheer coincidence, or that the restaurant proprietor was duplicitous for some reason, but then the deceased's mistress confirmed his identity."

"How?" Masbath immediately asked, having been hanging upon his every word. He was so eager to learn precisely all the ins and outs of Ichabod's work, it seemed as if he spent most his life asking questions. His mentor had encouraged him however, saying it was far better to ask than to be ignorant.

Ichabod suddenly looked very uncomfortable, his cheeks flushing a faint rouge. "Well," he stuttered, "She...managed to confirm certain...physical attributes that his son was not privy to....". To his great relief they reached the door to their home before the boy had a chance to inquire as to the exact details

"Ah, we're here," he said with a thankful sigh, "We'd better get inside quickly and clean up for dinner."

Ichabod swiftly undid the lock and stepped indoors, a rather confused Masbath following him.

It was Ichabod turn to give in to confusion however when they were not greeting by the familiar warm smells of cooking. It was very unlike Katrina to leave dinner until so late of a night.

Going to investigate the reason for her lateness he was ambushed by Mary as he tried to enter the sitting room.

Hearing his startled cry and knowing of his delicate nerves, the girl immediately looked contrite.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," she said in clear distress, "I didn't mean to alarm you."

"That's quite all right, Mary," he replied, having a little difficulty in swallowing the lump that had jumped into his throat, "Although I would like to know what has gotten into you."

Mary had once been a flower seller in a nearby market who Katrina had grown fond of. When she discovered that the girl was being forced to leave her home, as she could no longer afford the rent, she had offered her a job in the Crane household with a generous wage. The girl now came along of a day to help with the cooking, cleaning and shopping. Ichabod had always found her quiet, calm and sensible. Which suited his erratic nerves just fine. Her sudden agitation was most worrying.

"It's Ms Katrina," she said in concern, "She's been in such a state all afternoon, sir. I didn't know what to do."

"Katrina?" Ichabod asked, his complexion greying slightly as a hundred dreadful possibilities instantly came to mind, "What's wrong? What happened?" He pushed past her, going into the sitting room and scanning for his wife.

"She's upstairs, sir," Mary said, following him, "In the study. I don't know what's the matter. She said she received a letter. Some bad news."

"Bad news?" he pondered aloud.

"She's been in a terrible state, sir," Mary added with a worried shake of her head, "I've never seen her so put out."

Ichabod felt more than a little nauseous and allowed himself to just breathe for a moment before springing into action. He handed Masbath the box he was still clutching, "Take these up to the laboratory. Be careful now."

"Yes, sir," the boy replied, clearly just as concerned as he was.

Ichabod gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, bringing a slight smile to the young man's face. He knew that they were the only family the boy had. He cared about them a great deal and even the thought that one of them might be in distress was painful to him. He just hoped it wasn't as bad as the boy feared.

"Mary, see what you can do about dinner," Ichabod instructed as he walked to the door, "There's no sense in us going hungry."

"Yes, sir," she said with a nod.

As he left, he heard Masbath offer the girl his assistance.

Hurrying up the stairs, his boots clonked hard on the wood as he made his way to the study. Giving the door a small perfunctory knock, he entered without waiting to be asked to do so.

He found Katrina sitting at the desk, working by the light of a candle that had almost burnt itself out. Around her were a number of screwed up pieces of paper, obviously discarded drafts of whatever she was attempting to compose. Her head was resting on one hand, the other hovering over the paper, pen held firmly as if she could will the words out of it by force. She seemed to not have heard his entrance.

He crossed quickly and crouched beside her, laying his hand gently on her arm to get her attention. With an almost mournful sigh she turned her large eyes on him.

He'd never seen her look so sorrowful. He'd never seen her eyes without their wonderful sparkle of vibrant passion and he instantly hated its absence.

"What's happened?" he asked softly, moving his grip down to her own hand and stroking it in a comforting matter.

She said nothing. Simply reached into a pocket of her dress and produced a letter, handing it over for him to read.

A frown creased his brow as he took it, standing to relieve the cramping that had already begun in his legs. Unfolding the paper with his delicate fingers, he quickly read it.

When he finished his face remained an expressionless mask. He could see Katrina watching him, waiting for a response. He wasn't entirely sure what she expected. Probably a few hysterics and then a bout of fainting. But in reality he felt more horror than anything. And since he was certain that was not what she needed to see, he tried to show nothing at all.

He took a moment to compose himself, playing Mr Jeffries' words over in his mind: '_It was as if some great hand had come down without warning and plucked the Carrigan family from where they stood.' _Just a little more than a year ago he would have scoffed at such fanciful talk. Dismissed them as the ravings of a superstitious mind that had been shocked into becoming blinded to the scientific truth. But since his experiences in Sleepy Hollow he had been dealt an abject lesson in being too hasty to dismiss the seemingly ridiculous. The detective in him was already forming theories and modes of investigations. Glancing back at Katrina however, his cold, calculating mind instantly gave way to his heart.

"I'm sorry," he whispered quietly.

Katrina tried to smile in thanks but it looked so false, it only served to make her look all the sadder. Quietly she stood and moved to the window, opening it fully despite the chill it let in. She welcomed the coldness. It caressed her head that had been aching painfully for hours - although this was probably more to do with her squinting in the failing light than her present concerns.

"I'm not the one who needs your pity," she finally said, starring out at the world below. The children who had nearly bowled Ichabod over had moved their game into the street that stretched out before her. Their giggling and laughing almost made her smile. But then she remembered the missing children and the smile faded before it arrived. She'd known those families. The essence of Sleepy Hollow was like that - everyone knew everybody else. She recalled seeing Mrs Carrigan after her third child had been born. She'd commented on how sweet the baby girl was and Mrs Carrigan had gleamed like any proud new mother. And now something terrible had happened to them.

Katrina sighed heavily and Ichabod stepped up behind her.

"What will you do?" he asked, concerned for her state of mind.

She glanced over her shoulder at the dozen or so discarded letters. She hadn't been able to think of anything worthwhile to say or any meaningful advice to give. The people of Sleepy Hollow had always looked up to her father. They had trusted him as their unofficial leader, confidante and voice. Now she felt it was her duty to take that role and she had no idea of how to do it.

But she did know that she couldn't do it from so far away.

A sudden decisiveness over took her and she turned sharply, "I must pack."

Ichabod gripped her shoulders, his strength surprising her. "Pack?" he inquired.

She gazed at him levelly, her determination reasserting itself to the full, "I have to go. I'm my father's daughter. It's my duty."

Ichabod closed his eyes in a silent plea for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and made a firm choice, "Then I'm going with you. Perhaps I can discover what happened."

Katrina did smile this time and she threw her arms round his neck, burying her head under his chin. Ichabod wrapped his arms around her slender form and stroked her back in comfort.

"Thank you," she whispered softly, feeling such a sense of relief at his words. He was a very clever man and a good investigator. The best there had ever been as far as she was concerned. If anyone could discover what had happened to those families it was Ichabod Crane, of that she had no doubt.

Besides, she would feel far better with him around.

"No need," he returned, rocking her gently from side to side, "I would cross heaven and hell for you."

She laughed very slightly, "From what I remember we got rather close to hell in our last adventure. You didn't like it that much."

He gave her a wane smile. She was right of course. He hadn't exactly been the pinnacle of bravery nor confidence during his Sleepy Hollow investigation. The number of times he had fainted dead away after a particularly traumatic event was rather embarrassing....And the way he had behaved the morning after Phillipse's murder, blathering on like an idiot....It made him shudder to think what a fool he had made of himself.

Yet the heartening thing was that he had not let his fears defeat him as he perhaps would have expected them to. He had faced them and come out with a stubborn determination of his own. That he had persevered to the conclusion of the case was a personal as well as a professional triumph. He had never felt much pride in his own achievements until then and the success had done him the world of good.

"Yes," he finally said, admitting Katrina was fair in her teasing, "But every cloud has a silver lining."

She pulled away slightly to look at him in curiosity, "There was a silver lining to nearly being decapitated and shot?"

He reached out gently and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. Even considering all that personal and professional gain he still valued one thing a million times higher than the rest.

"There was you," he replied solemnly, "You saved me."

And in more ways than he ever believed she could know. Her presence had given him confidence that had boosted him into action when he may have given up, saving his career. Her willingness to listen to the dark stories of his childhood had saved his mind and his sanity. Her gift of a book had saved his life. And her presence had saved him from the loneliness he feared would be his only constant companion.

Her smile was warm and knowing, as if she could read his thoughts after all.

"We saved each other."

Not knowing how to respond to that, he dipped his head forward and kissed her tenderly, praying that the decision to return would not be a terrible mistake.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Many thanks to all those who have left reviews. I'm very flattered by the praise. I hope you continue to enjoy this.

****

CHAPTER 5

Ichabod gave one last look around his cluttered attic laboratory, wondering if he had forgotten anything which may aid him in his investigations. The problem was that it was rather difficult to plan ahead when he really had no idea what he would be facing. Although he feared it would not be easy.

His eyes came to rest on his desk and he realised that he had forgotten something after all. Putting down the bag that Katrina had brought him to replace his lost other, he walked around the far side of the desk and pulled open the drawer. Inside was a sparse collection of his most treasured things, including the cardinal toy that had once been his mother's. Why he kept them in here rather than his in his room, he was not entirely sure. Perhaps it was because he had always been more at home here in his laboratory.

What he was looking for was filed neatly at the front, so it was always the first things he saw when he opened the draw. It served to remind him of how fortunate he was.

When Katrina entered a few moments later, he was holding the small blue book in his hand. He turned it over once or twice before placing it securely in his breast pocket. The spell book - complete with bullet embedded in it - was back where it belonged.

"The coach is waiting outside," she said softly, when it was clear he hadn't seen nor heard her enter.

"Yes," he said in an only softly startled manner, "I'm almost done."

Katrina stepped a little further into the room. She liked it and yet she rarely ventured up here. This was Ichabod's private sanctuary and she felt as though she should leave him that. She had her books and he had his science.

"Did you forget anything?" she asked, glancing round and wondering what on earth most of the equipment here did. She had no trouble recognising the beautiful bird cage though. She wondered if its former occupant had flown through the perfectly circular window that for some reason she found so charming.

"No," he said, taking one last look around as he picked up his bag, "Nothing important anyway."

He patted the book hidden inside his coat unconsciously, and noted that she saw the gesture.

"It is sure protection against harm," he said, reminding her of her own words. It was meant it to be some sort of comfort to her but instead her face fell.

"And you believe we'll need it?" she asked, troubled.

"I can't be certain of anything," he admitted gently, "But I don't intended to take any chances which will unquestionably increase the likelihood that we'll be perfectly fine."

She smiled. He had a marvellous way of rationalising everything into scientific terms. She found it somehow reassuring. 

Pleased to see her looking a little happier, he guided her gently out of the door and glanced at his retreat once more before closing it up behind them. A very small part of him questioned whether he'd see it again.

--

The journey to Sleepy Hollow seemed longer the second time than it had the first. Perhaps it was because Ichabod found himself unable to sleep. For a short while he would rest fitfully, hovering between dreams and reality, never really aware of one nor the other. The slightest sound or jolt however would make him wake with a start, glancing round fearfully for an opponent, before his rational mind would reassert itself and tell him that nothing was amiss.

Perhaps the seemingly endless journey had something to do with his state of mind however. On his first visit here he had been nervous and uncertain, yet excited at finally having an opportunity to demonstrate his skills on an actual case. This time he was simply nervous, despite the reassurances he had given Katrina.

Ichabod never was one to pay heed to superstition and the such, even after his experiences in this little town. But something about this place made his stomach churn. It was as if tragedy and evil were woven into the very fabric of the area, making the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Thankfully, Katrina and Masbath seemed not so disturbed. Or at least they were more able to ignore it. That the boy had wished to come with them had hardly been a surprise, but even so Ichabod had tried to dissuade him. All his pleas had fallen on deaf ears however and he knew there was no point in attempting to make him stay behind by force. Masbath had turned out to be remarkably resourceful when he needed to be. It would be a simple task for him to make his own way to Sleepy Hollow, and Ichabod would rather he be where he could keep an eye on him.

The coach rattled noisily along the rocky track that ran adjacent to the Hudson River. Ichabod had chosen to sit on this side of the coach because he would rather look into the grey, dull expanse of the Hudson, rather than the fierce, imposing thicket of forest that was on their other side. Even the most dangerous New York alleyways didn't look so menacing.

Katrina, who was sleeping quietly against his shoulder, stirred slightly when the coach bounced it's way over a particularly large rock. He reached out a stroked her soft hair. The gesture of comfort had desired effect because she soon settled back into a peaceful slumber.

She hadn't been herself since the news of the vanishings had arrived. Out of them both, she was the calm, controlled one. She wasn't prone to extreme or unexpected reactions. The gentleness of her nature didn't seem to allow it. And yet, in the last few days, she had been fretful and restless. Constantly worrying and agitated. She had hardly sat still, taking up his occupation of pacing the length of the sitting room floor. Even her reading - which usually gave her such solace through everything - was attempted in vain. She could not sit with a book for more than ten minutes before she was compelled to admit defeat. Only now, when they were doing something tangible in response did she seem to have regained her composure.

Ichabod was quite the opposite. At home, he had been calm about the whole situation. A sense of scientific detachment had seemed to have asserted itself upon him. He had begun to form a plan of action for when he arrived, deciding exactly what he would do and researching previous cases of a similar nature. As they got closer however, the detachment couldn't hold and it gave way to his personal memories of his last visit. And since these included being scared out of his wits as he chased a headless demon intent on horribly murdering people, it was hardly surprising that they did nothing for his state of mind.

The coach didn't stop at the gates as it had on his first arrival, but instead rode through the town, heading for the Van Tassel manor.

When they pulled to a stop beside the impressive yet ominous looking house, Ichabod moved to place a gentle kiss on Katrina's cheek, waking her in the same way she had done him when they had returned to New York.

"We're here," he announced softly as her eyes fluttered open.

Her reaction was a little hard to read. It mainly spoke of placidity, but her expressive eyes were indeed troubled. She clearly had no warm feelings about returning to her childhood home.

She starred out of the window at it for such a long moment that it caused Ichabod and Young Masbath to exchange a slightly worried glance.

"Come along," she eventually said, forcing herself to make a decisive movement, "It's getting late and I fear we have a long day before us tomorrow."


End file.
